


Rock And Roll Is In The Blood

by gala_apples



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Bloodplay, M/M, Nosebleed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete spends a few hours in a mosh pit, things get a bit messy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock And Roll Is In The Blood

Pete doesn’t know who the fuck he’s listening to, but that’s okay. If he decides he needs to reexperience them he’ll search for a handbill, or see if they have a merch table, or see if he can catch them loading their shit into their van later. Hell, worst comes to worst, he can call this shitty little club tomorrow morning and asked who played the night before- although that would involve remembering what this shitty club’s name is.

He can’t understand more than three words a lyric, but that’s okay too. He doesn’t need to sing along, he understands what the meaning underneath is. He understands what the gesture to thrust the microphone towards the crowd means, and bellows along accordingly.

He doesn’t know any of the fuckers around him. Not by name. He knows the different people and their functions. There are the big guys who take it upon themselves to protect the small girls from most of the fists and elbows. There are the tall guys that help boost everyone that wants to, and even some that don’t on to the top of the crowd so they can surf. There are the wavers, the people that help the surfer get close to the stage, some assholes coping a feel, some just being legitimately helpful. There are the scene kids, the ones that spend hours trying to pick the perfect outfit only to come and get it sweaty and ripped. There are the band lovers, the ones that wear merch of the band to the concert and don’t care that the scene kids are mocking them for it. There are the ragers that need to mosh more than they need to breathe, and they don’t care what they’re listening to as long as there’s someone to push.

Pete likes to think he’s a combination of them all. He’s not tall enough to boost people unless they sit on his shoulders, but he’s willing to give anyone a push to the front. If he sees someone knock some five foot girl down he’ll help them up, though he’s not much good for actual protection, a combination of wanting to mosh himself and not being sturdy enough to be a shield. Mostly it’s wanting to mosh himself, he loves every band he hears for the brief moments they’re on stage and wants to pay tribute the only way he can. And he does have the proper look, not that he spends any time cultivating it. The hair and the tattoos are just sort of permanent.

And then there’s the outsider categories. There are the pussy scene kids that want to be seen at a metal concert without actually ever stepping onto the floor. There are the live music gods, the ones that just want to drink and listen to music that’s not prerecorded. There are the reminiscers, the ones that spend most of the night talking about other bands they’ve seen that are better, or that this band played a better show at here during when. There are the dealers who figure -rightly- that the vast majority of the people here are into intoxicants. There are the friends of the scene kids, who come because they’ve got a deal that the next weekend they’re going to go to techno club, damn it, if they support them first. And there are the friends of the band lovers, who promise to stand back and record the show for youtube and personal use.

Mikey and Gabe are a combination of these too. Gabe’s sitting, texting and drinking and probably trying to find a good connection. Mikey’s leaning against the wall, looking pretty with his drink in hand, but Pete knows he’s really listening. He hasn’t caught a glimpse of them in the last two hours, but he’s positive that’s what’s going on behind the curtain of people seperating them.

So he doesn’t know anyone in the crowd, doesn’t know the lyrics or the band, doesn’t know the name of the club they’re in. None of it matters, because he knows the _music_ , and he knows how to pour out his love for it in throwing his body against others. Every bruise and blown eardrum and hoarse voice the next day is a sacrifice at the alter of the Gods of Rock. Sure it’s corny as fuck, but it’s also true. Ask anyone in the writhing mess around him, they all know.

Pete screams and can’t hear himself over the roars of those around him, who may or may not know the lyrics either. Screams and yearns to make himself heard by the band who all have pitchers of beer resting on stools behind them. Screams and wonders if the singer who’s got his microphone half down his throat even knows his own phrases, or if he’s too drunk and in the moment/out of his head to do anything more than growl and hope the audience reads beneath the lines.

He smashes his body sideways and gets and elbow to the ribs for it, jumps up only to stumble backwards when he comes down on someone’s foot. The girl in front of him’s hair is in his mouth, his own is plastered to his face and in his eyes. He can’t really raise his arm to push it out of the way, there’s no room without taking down the person to his right. He shakes his head like a wet dog and decides fuck it when it flops directly back into place. He can keep his right eye closed, or he can let the sweat drip down and sting. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that the music doesn’t stop.

The singer announces it’s going to be their last song for the set, and no they don’t have time for a encore, the motherfuckers that are next on the bill need time to set up, and the group that actually came for this band goes mental. Or maybe it’s not just them, pretty much everyone in this crowd is just looking for a reason. Regardless, the entirety of the mass of people behind him all surge forward, fighting like they’ve just realised this is their only chance to touch the lead singer. Pete gets swept off his feet, but there’s such a crush of people in every direction that he doesn’t need to stand to keep upright. It’s the opposite of floating, but it’s fucking amazing. He’d text the world to inform them, only he can’t move his arms.

The surge comes to a sudden stop at the people in front hit the metal fence and start pushing back at the crowd pushing them. Pete remembers that feeling, remembers the one time he cracked a rib from too much shoving. People at the front always have a huge belt of a bruise the day after, which is why he stays in the middle. He wants his bruises and scratches everywhere, not just on his belly. Pete and a dozen other people are caught in the middle between bodies that cannot possibly move forward and bodies behind him that are bulldozing with all their might. It’s a power struggle and Christ, if he had the power of his arms he’d jerk off.

Pete gets a mighty shove from someone obviously taller than him -he doesn’t have the ability to look behind him, but the guy’s elbows are at his shoulders- and his head gets rammed into the skull of the shaved bald -girl? guy? he can’t see their face so he can’t tell that either- person in front of him. She throws both elbows back sharply and Pete tries to back off a bit, even though it’s only going to get him another push from the giant behind him.

One last roar from the singer and everyone on stage is throwing what’s left of their beer on the crowd. Pete ducks as best as he can. He doesn’t care about getting in a cab stinking and covered in dried sweat, but they might not let him in if he’s doused in beer. Moving down gets his body climbed by someone that mistakes his crouch for a surfer-helper pose. He has a feeling that the woman above him is flashing, if the sudden wolf whistles of the dudes on stage are anything to go by, but he can’t exactly look up and see.

She gets off and the crowd starts to disperse. Everyone needs water or a few shots before they go back in for the next band. Pete’s gonna go with the former. He can get all the taste he wants from his lover’s mouths, and he hasn’t eaten anything except pretzels in the last twenty four hours, one shot would be enough to make him tip over. Weakness is not something you show if you plan to mosh. But first he needs to get back to them, he needs to rave about how fucking amazing that just was.

Pete scans the room until he spots them, Mikey in a vintage shirt, ripped jeans and beanie that would make any scene kid proud, Gabe with a row of empty screwdriver glasses in front of him. He dashes over and starts babbling ‘did you hear that, wasn’t that amazing, you’re such pussies for not getting into the pit, how could you not mosh, didn’t you fucking hear that?’

Normally they let him go on for at least ten minutes, they’re both well aware of how fucking mental Pete can get with hard music in a tightly packed club. This time they interrupt, Mikey with a scowl and Gabe with a blank expression but actual words. Pretty much how they always work, really.

“What the fuck happened?”

Pete can feel the sweet dripping down his face. He wipes his forearm once against his forehead, and again across the lower half of his face. He doesn’t care if he’s pushing his own sweat into his mouth, he’s tasted worse in the past and probably will in the future. He adjusts his confined dick with a hand that’s damp from being balled into a first for the last however long.

“Wanna fuck?”

“Pete, your face is covered in blood. What the fucking hell happened?”

Pete touches his nose curiously. Once he does it’s like the pain switch has turned on, he can feel it throbbing. He licks his lips, they taste like pennies. “I guess I headbutted this girl? Whatever, wanna go fuck?”

“You look pretty mangled, dude.”

Pete is so not doing this bullshit with Gabe. If he can fuck Gabe when his eyes are yellow and red from not sleeping for four days, Gabe can do him when he’s a bit bloody. He plops himself on Gabe’s knee and starts kissing him. Gabe resists for a second and then returns the gesture. His mouth tastes like orange juice.

“Shouldn’t you at least try to stop the bleeding before you make out with him?”

“Oh fuck you Mikeyway,” are Pete’s warning words before he stands and comes in at him. Mikey tries to dodge, but Pete is high on moshing and that’s much stronger than anything Mikey could combat with. His angle is wrong and he bumps his nose on his cheekbone. Pete hisses in pain, trying to not make it obvious. He doesn’t want a fucking ‘I told you so’.

When he pulls away from his boyfriend he sees Mikey’s lips are covered in his blood. He’s not entirely sure why that’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen in his life, just knows that it is. Mikey covered in his blood makes him even harder than the moshing did.

“Alley or bathroom. Pick one.” There’s not a chance they’re going to make it anywhere safer, more private.

“Dude, I want to hear the next band. They’re the reason we came tonight anyway.” Pete didn’t come here for the next band, he doesn’t even know who the fuck the next band is. He’s sure Gabe told them both hours ago on their way here, but the moshing has wiped all higher learning from his head. Right now he’s Music and Fuck and Magnificent and that’s just about fucking it.

“Bathroom it is then.”

Pete lets Mikey lead the way. He’s horny enough to fuck them both in the middle of the club, but there’s a lot of people that wouldn’t go over well with. The nice thing about guy’s bathrooms in bars is there tends to be no lines. There are lines for girls, and when they go to an actual dancing club the bathrooms are always unisex, either on purpose or signs just ignored by all the gays and lesbians, but in a hardcore bar where genders are enforced they can just walk right in and walk into the handicapped stall. Pete feels a bit guilty for it. Or at least he makes a mental note to feel guilty for it later, when he’s got a larger emotional range. Right now he doesn’t care about it at all, just wants to be on his knees sucking cock.

Gabe beats him to it. He glances at the floor as if checking for massive puddles of urine before dropping to his knees and tugging Pete’s pants down. Gabe is fucking _good_ with his mouth, and seeing Mikey kneel behind him and reach around to jerk him off as a reward for his work is even better.

Pete has to look away before he comes prematurely and is mocked for hours. It wouldn’t be fair, he’s been hard since the first bodycheck, but it’s what would happen, and Pete’s not about to deny the truth. He leans back and rests his head on the dark orange painted metal. The tilt causes blood to leak down the back of his throat like a coke drip. He’s only experienced it a few times, it’s not his thing, but the more he thinks of it, the more similarities there are. It tastes bad, like burnt chemicals. It’s a reminder of good times being had, it leaves a film in his mouth. Most of all, he wants more. He swallows the blood and waits for another trickle.

It doesn’t drip, and Pete never knew he needed this before, but he thinks he does. At least on nights where his shirt is covered in the sweat of twenty other people and he’s half blinded from the melted hairspray dripping into his eyes. He curses his healthy system for making his blood clot so fast, then reaches up and pinches just below the bridge of his nose. He lets out a moan of pain, and then a second as the blood bursts onto his tongue and he comes in Gabe’s mouth.

Pete’s the kind of person that blacks out for a minute after sex. He’s had various people mock him for the male stereotype, but Mikey and Gabe always use it as an opportunity to finish what they’re doing. Or in the case that they’ve finished first, to settle into sleep or clean up the mess. By the time Pete can do more than blink Gabe’s using toilet paper to clean the spit off his chin and Mikey’s doing weird origami shit with it.

“What’er you doing?”

Mikey presents two cylinders of toilet paper. “When you go back out onto the floor cram these up your nose. That way you don’t ruin your shirt more than it already is.”

“I think he’s already fucked, man,” Gabe snickers. Pete takes the cylinders and the expression and basks. Just as good as ‘I love you's’ any day.


End file.
